Post by Deleted on Nov 30, 2013 18:05:52 GMT -5
“Interview With A Coonass (1)”
Despite Sarah Twilight’s supposedly tyrannical reign over the Wrestling Championship Federation, there had been a massive influx of new talent interested in joining. It seemed that every day there was word of another superstar being added to the roster. And while this was good news for the health of the company, it meant more work for those people whose job it was to “sell” the wrestlers to the public. As much as it is a sport, professional wrestling was about telling a story; and to tell a good one, the public had to know the characters.
Sometimes, this is easy. A lot of the new hires have come from other wrestling federations, making it simple to gather information on them. And even if he or she is a newcomer, getting them to sit down and answer a few questions about their background isn’t too difficult an endeavor. Most wrestlers are as much showmen as athletes, and are willing to play the game if it means advancement on the card.
Then, there was Caleb Fourchon. It wasn’t as if he was a complete mystery. WCF had his vital stats and a short bio up on their company website. He had competed in a WCF ring just last week. There was even some news reports about him before becoming a pro wrestler: for years he had been part of a traveling circus in South-eastern Lousiana. This was before 2008, however, when Hurricane Gustav destroyed the bulk of Professor Samedi’s Cajun Carnival and scattered its members to the four winds.
What wasn’t known, was where Caleb landed, and what he had been doing since. That was why Clarice Grackle, one of WCF’s many fact checkers, was dispatched to the Pelican State to find out.
(*********)
“They tried to get an interview with Caleb Fourchon in Denver, before Slam,” Clarice’s supervisor told her via Skype, “No such luck. He just stared at Hank for a minute, and then wandered off. When he tried again later, Caleb threatened to unscrew the top of his skull and punch him in the brain.”
“Is that on tape?” Clarice asked, secretly hopeful. She didn’t have much use for WCF’s number one broadcast journalist, for a variety of reasons.
“I’ll email you a copy,” her boss told her, “It’ll be attached to your itinerary for your trip to Louisiana. We’re sending you to try and interview Fourchon.”
“Me? Why me?” Clarice seldom went out to conduct interviews in the field. Most of the research she did was online.
“Because you’re from there, for one thing.”
“I’m from Shreveport. That’s well north and west of Terrebonne Parish. It might as well be another state. Maybe another world.”
“And because you’re an attractive young woman and we think Fourchon might respond to that,” he told her bluntly, “On top of being smart enough to ask the right questions.”
Right. That was what she assumed, but did not expect to hear, “When do I leave?”
From Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans Clarice took her first helicopter ride to Houma-Terrebonne Airport. There she was supposed to meet a local, Ben Pertuit, who would introduce her to Fourchon. She knew to dress warmly, despite the region’s latitude. She had on a khaki hooded faux-fur-trim Puffer coat and her long, straw colored hair was tucked under a knitted pom beanie. A thick scarf enshrouded her elven features. If the hope was to persuade Caleb to an interview using her physical charms, Clarice would have to hope the big man had a burqa fetish.
As she stumbled away from the chopper, her head ducked down comically low out of fear of losing it to its slowing rotor, a smallish man in jeans and a tan barn jacket approached her, “You Miss Grackle?” he drawled.
“Yes. Are you Mister Pertuit?”
He was. The two shook hands, and soon they were walking towards Pertuit’s truck.
“I really don’t know why you’re here,” he told her, “Fourchon isn’t exactly glib. I had to offer a bribe just to get him to agree to meet with you. Odds are he isn’t going to tell you anything important.”
“The best way to gather intelligence on a subject is direct and in person,” Clarice quoted something her dad always said, “Boots on the ground, so to speak.”
Ben Pertuit looked down to evaluate the young lady’s fashionable Uggs, “Not those boots.”
(********)
What Pertuit meant by that, it turned out, was that she would need more sturdy footwear to reach their particular destination. This was when Clarice found out that her interview would take place at Fourchon’s home, which was set on a small spit of land in the middle of the swamp. Ben and her drove to his house to pick up a pair of shrimp boots for her, and to launch his fan boat. The two made small talk as they travelled, though mostly about Pertuit himself, and his family. Clarice genuinely liked learning about people, to know their stories, which is what led her to her current line of work.
Mister Pertuit steered the boat through the narrow waterways of the swamp. Being late November, it wasn’t remotely as lush or green as it could have been, but it was still impressive. Long veils of Spanish moss hung from the cypress trees that closely crowded the bayou. Occasionally a pure white egret would be seen along the shoreline, nimbly stepping through the cordgrass, hunting for food.
Finally, the pair reached their goal: a hump of ground no more than two hundred square feet in size. It rose straight from the swamp, no higher than six feet above the waterline. A small wooden shack stood in its center. There was no other vegetation, but numerous “cypress knees” jutting from the dark soil made it clear that there had been at one time at least on tree here. As Mister Pertuit cut the engine and let the boat drift towards the island, the subject of Clarice’s search came into view.
Fourchon was huge. Well over six and a half feet tall, and broad shouldered. His long, rangy arms hung loosely and his sides as he loped out from the lean-to. His skin was tanned from countless hours in sun, but Clarice could tell he had a naturally dusky complexion. His hair, too, was dark: a greasy jet black “styled” in a wing cut, swept back and held in place by God know what. Caleb’s facial hair was also poorly groomed. He had a prominent, bulging forehead, and small close set eyes that stared back at Clarice dully.
As impressive was his size, what stunned the young woman more was the scars that riddled Caleb’s body. Some were thin and pale, and stretched the length of his limbs. Others were deep punctures that his flesh had healed over, leaving behind ugly gouges. The wounds were so numerous he almost looked stitched together.
Clarice noticed he wasn’t wearing boots. In fact, he had no shoes on at all. There was one of those tracking bracelets affixed to his ankle, however. Despite the cold he wore only a faded and soiled “WCF” tee shirt and a ratty pair of sweat pants. And he had a knife; a small one, certainly, but it still made Clarice leery.
Mister Pertuit brushed past her and approached Caleb, dragging a big mesh bag with him. He spoke softly to Caleb. The giant’s gaze went from the old man to the sack to Clarice. He nodded, and took the bag. Swinging it over his shoulder, he walked over to a stump set in the soft earth outside the shack. He sat down, his long, thick legs bent at the knees. Opening the bag, Caleb produced a thin, black, muck covered object about the size of his palm. He used his knife to pry it open, revealing its slimy insides. Thick fingers with dirt encrusted nails scooped out the gob of meat within and popped it in Caleb’s mouth. There was no sign of Caleb chewing on the morsel, just down the hatch it went, and immediately Caleb was shucking another oyster to eat. And another. And another.
The WCF fact checker finally spoke up, “Mister Fourchon, I’m Clarice Grackle, and –“
“I’d wait if I were you,” Ben Pertuit advised as he walked back towards her, his face cast in a way that recommended extreme caution.
After another three minutes and twenty three oysters, Caleb folded up his pen knife. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he turned to consider his female guest, “Aks yer questshuns.”
“Mister Fourchon, I’m Clarice Grackle. I work in the Research Department for Wrestling Championship Federation’s Multimedia Division. We produce the company’s magazine, its online shows, the WCF comic book, those things.”
Caleb stared at her. The blonde fidgeted a little before continuing.
“Anyway, part of my job is to gather background information on the WCF’s roster. Knowing who a wrestler is, and where he came from, helps the fans form a connection with him.”
Fourchon kept his dim, almost unfocussed gaze on her. Clarice wasn’t sure if the giant was trying to creep her out or was legitimately touched in the head. She got to the point.
“Anyway, I’m here to ask you about your past.”
“Yeah. Ah sed to start.”
“Oh. Right. Well, what we need from you, Mister Fourchon, is the details of your life between Professor Samedi’s Cajun Carnival and being hired by WCF. Can you tell us where you were and what you were doing during that time?”
Caleb Fourchon took his knife and stuck it in the pocket of his sweat pants, “Ah wrasslin. Not gators, dough. Ah dun fightin gators.”
So he did have experience wrestling non-reptilian opponents. Clarice and her people weren’t sure. There was nothing in the bio WCF Legal sent to them that mentioned any training or prior employment with other feds, “What company or companies did you work for?”
“LSPWA.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that one, sir. Is that local?” Clarice doubted it. She had done her research, and none of the nearby promotions had those initials.”
“Naw, it a ways from here. LSPWA is Louisiana State Penitentiary Wrasslin Associashun.”
Now, Clarice had heard of Angola, the state’s somewhat infamous prison farm. The suggestion that it had an organized wrestling league, however, was news to her. She would have to look into that, “And how long were you there?”
“Tree, four years. Dunno.”
“Do you remember your record?”
“Naw. Ah stop countin when dem couyons (2) say Ah lose matches bah disqualificashun. Dat why Ah like de WCF. Dere no chance of dat happenin now,” for the first time Caleb smiled, revealing two rows of jagged, but remarkably white, teeth.
“And how did you go from Angola, I mean the LSPWA, to WCF?”
“Mah sponsah, Judge Dugas. He set it up.”
Dugas was another name she was unfamiliar with, “Who is he?”
“Huh? He mah sponsah, Ah tell you.”
“Right. But how is he related to you?”
“He not, Clarice Grackle.”
“Do you know his full name?”
Caleb reached up and scratched the top of his head absently, “Wasn’t mah place to aks.”
Clarice sighed inwardly. Finding, and speaking with, this Judge Dugas person would be a priority. It shouldn’t be too hard to track him down, assuming he was in fact a real judge. She decided to check with Caleb on any other potential sources of background information; sources that would be less obtuse than the subject himself, “What about relatives?”
“Dere mah Uncle Nermy.”
“Nermy Fourchon?”
“Naw. He from mah mudder side. He a Gros. Live in Dulac. He who Ah go see to watch WCF on de television.”
“You watch a lot of wrestling?”
“Yeah, even when Ah p'tit boug (3) Ah like de wrasslin. Espeshully WCF,” Caleb tugged on the front of his shirt to point out its logo.
“So this is almost a dream come true for you?” Clarice inquired, leading the interview subject somewhat.
“Guess so. Ever since dey teach me wrasslin in Angola, Ah bin wantin to face some real competishun. Now it gonna happen finally,” there was an awkward pause as Caleb rubbed his knees and looked at the ground, before sullenly adding “Last week don’t count.”
“It’s an interesting coincidence, given who you are facing this Sunday at Slam,” the young woman attempted to segue into the topic of Caleb’s upcoming match.
Fourchon was nonplussed, “Why you say coincidence?”
“Well, because, like yourself, two of your three opponents have criminal pasts, and the third has close family members that do.”
“Hold up!” the man raised his meaty paw in objection, “Ah ain’t no jailbird.”
“But you said-“ Clarice began.
“Dey didn’t put me in Angola fer crimes,” Caleb’s hand formed into a fist and he thumped his chest proudly, “Ah ward of de state after carnival close.”
The young woman didn’t see how that was any better, but she kept her comment to herself. She did decide now was the time to broach the topic of the ankle bracelet, “I just assumed, because of your, uh, monitoring device, you might be on some kind of probation.”
“Whut, dis?” Caleb grabbed his foot by the tippy toes and raised it up to show off the gizmo her wore, “Naw. Ah gotta wear dis to live here. Parts of de swamp are protected habitats dat off limits.”
Clarice nodded, but she found that reason highly doubtful. It would be easy enough to check when she was back in civilization, so she returned to her original line of questioning, “Would it be alright if we talked about the match now?”
“Yeah, yeah. Dis match punishment fer mah first one, when Ah git tossed out by dem posers De Nerd Smashers,” Fourchon’s left leg began to shake with nervous energy, “Ah watch WCF enuff to know how tings go. You don’t do good, de Boss put you in a big scrum of a fight and let de wheat sort itself from de chaff. Don’t matter if it Boss Lerch, Boss Fly, Boss Price, or Boss Twilight: dey all do it.”
“And this upsets you?”
“Mais yeah (4), it upset me! Bad enough mah first fight one of dem clusterfucks, but now Ah gotta do it again. Hard to make strong impresshun in dat kinda match.”
“What do you think about the three men you’ll be facing Sunday?”
“Not much. Ah mean, Ah dun know much. Only one of dem bin in WCF match before: Mister Gee.”
“That would be Gabriel C. Mephisto III?” Clarice clarified for expositional purposes.
“Yeah. Ah watch his fights. He look good in first, when he score de submisshun, but in second Frank Venable drop him like bad habit. Ah ain’t impressed.”
“FPV won the World Title, and is a WCF Grand Slam Champion. Anyone might have trouble beating him.”
“And whut he done lately, Clarice Grackle? Be People’s Champyoun? Fer true, Venable bin coastin fer a while now, livin off his rep,” Fourchon smiled thinly and then shook his head, “Dis ain’t about dat peeshwank(5). Whut madder is Mister Gee. And he only barely madder. Dey say he good technicul wrassler, but Ah say ‘So’? All dem fancy holds mean nuttin when you facin a man stronger and bigger den you, AND who smart enuff to keep tings simple. If ‘De Jackal’ try to lock up wit me, Ah gonna wring him out like a wet sponge. And if he wanna trade punches; mah power gonna trump his stoopid kung-fu easy.”
“You claim your power gives you an advantage over Gabriel Mephisto. What are you going to do about the other two men in the match, the newcomers Original Gangster and “The Upgrade” Mod Deuce, both of whom are billed as larger than you?” Clarice asked.
Caleb shrugged his shoulders and hung his head down, his gaze focused on the scarring that marred both of his hands’ knuckles, “Got to see tape on dem first before Ah give good evaluashun,” he looked up, “But Ah got doubts about De Original Gangster. He billed as six feet nine and two twenty? Dat one Skinny Mullet (6)! If he really dat tin, De Original Gangster gonna snap in half in mah Cocodrie Clutch. Don’t madder if he dressed like he’s a Boy from De Hood or Scarface: only chance he gonna have against me is if dem dere guns he carry to de ring ain’t props.”
Clarice gave a slight grin at the quip, “And Mod Deuce?”
“He might be problem,” Caleb admitted, leaning back from his seat on the stump, “He big, and strong, and dey say he got experience wrasslin. But Ah hear udder stuff too. Stuff Ah kin use.”
“Is it anything you can share?”
The Cajun Crippler thought a moment, and then answered, “Mod Deuce got bum knee. Which one Ah dun know, but it won’t be hard to figger out once Ah watch him in actshun. Once Ah see, den Ah targit it. Hobble him. Put dat Grand Beede’(7) on de mat and set him up fer de Clutch,” he paused again, “Ah hear anudder ting about Mod Deuce too. Dat some cuckoo wrassler stalkin him.”
“RaYne,” the fact checker clarified.
“Yeah, dat him. He got a mad on fer Mod Deuce, and is gonna use him to make his mark in WCF. Anybuddy who follow de sport know whut dat mean.”
“Do you anticipate RaYne might interfere in your Slam match to get at Mod Deuce?”
“Anytin possible, Clarice Grackle. Whut madder is dat Mod Deuce tinkin about it. He gotta prepare in case it do happen. And dat a distractshun.”
Clarice checked her phone for the time. It had been about a forty minute trip to Fourchon’s shack, and her ride back to Louis Armstrong was due to take off in an hour. It was time to wrap things up, “So, in conclusion, how confident are you going into your match Sunday night?”
“Oh, Ah gonna win. Guaronteed.”
That was it. The young woman put her pad and phone in her bag and stood, “Okay, Mister Fourchon. Thank you very much for your time.”
Caleb stood up as well. He moved fluidly towards Clarice, his long strides covering the distance between them in moments, until the giant Cajun was right before her, easily a foot and a half taller than she, even in his bare feet, looming down on her, his close set eyes boring into hers, “You gotta make dis story good, hear? People need to know whut true.”
“Sir, if you could please step back? You are violating my personal space,” she said as evenly as possible. Inside, however, she was quaking. Her guide, Pertuit, had not moved an inch since Fourchon rose.
There was a pause, and Caleb gave a soft snort. Stepping back an easy four feet with a single stride, he went on talking, “Dere big misconceptshun about who Ah am, about whut Ah am.”
“What are you?” the researcher couldn’t keep herself from asking.
“Ah ain’t no punk, dat fer sure. Last week at Slam, dem Nerd Smashers make me look like one, when dey trow me out de ring like Ah was nuttin. And Ah gonna cop to it. Dey got me fair and square. But dat was den, and dis is now. And now, tomorrow, or a hunnert years from now, you put me in dat ring wit dose same seven wrasslers an Ah eliminate every single one of dem. Ah pull de skin off dere bones and make boots from dere hides. You lookin at de newest, realest monstre (8) in Wrasslin Champyounship Federashun, come to make de misère (9) fer de whole locker room. Sunday, Ah start with Gabe Mephisto, De Original Gangster, and Mod Deuce. But Ah ain’t stopping dere. Fer true, Ah ain’t never gonna stop.”
Caleb Fourchon nodded slightly to Clarice, as if saying farewell, and then turned on his heel and loped back to his sack of oysters. Clarice gave herself a moment’s recovery to make sure her legs wouldn’t give out on her if she moved, and headed towards the fanboat. She silently hoped this would be the last face to face encounter the two of them ever had.
She would be wrong.
Footnotes:
(1)Coonass: Cajun slang for, well, Cajun
(2)Couyon: Fool, idiot
(3)P'tit Boug: young boy
(4) Mais yeah: “Of course”, or “Heck yes”.
(5) Peeshwank: little person, runt
(6) Skinny Mullet: a thin person. I probably didn’t have to footnote this one.
(7) Grande Beede’: a big, clumsy man
(8) Monstre: monster. Duh.
(9) Make the Misere: to cause trouble
